Chapter 2: The Obsidian Scales, The Emerald Gaze
Five years had passed since the day Aemond Xantys, the boy with the Stark-dark hair and unsettlingly perceptive eyes, had claimed the wild, green-streaked dragon Vhagarion. Valyria, in its incandescent arrogance, remained oblivious to the shadow growing in its heart, a shadow that now walked its obsidian streets in the guise of a fifteen-year-old scion of a notable Dragonlord house.
Aemond had grown. The lingering chubiness of childhood had given way to a lean, wiry strength. He was taller than most boys his age, though not yet possessed of the imposing physicality that had once been Aizen Sōsuke's. That would come, the Hōgyoku subtly promised, as his power grew. His features were a curious blend: the sharp intelligence in his dark brown eyes, so deep they often appeared black, was pure Aizen. The strong line of his jaw and the proud set of his head echoed Rhaegar Xantys, but the darkness of his hair and a certain stillness about him, a watchful patience, spoke of Lyra Stark and the ancient, silent lands of the North.
His public persona was meticulously crafted. To the Valyrian elite, Aemond Xantys was a prodigy, yes, but a disciplined, somewhat aloof one. He excelled in his studies of Valyrian lore, strategy, and even the more esoteric branches of their elemental magic, surpassing tutors with an almost casual brilliance. He spoke High Valyrian with a chilling perfection, his pronouncements often laced with an archaic formality that some found unsettling, others impressive. He was not given to the flamboyant displays of emotion or the boisterous camaraderie common amongst young dragonlords. Instead, he observed, listened, and when he spoke, his words were precise, insightful, and often carried a subtle weight that belied his years.
Internally, Aizen Sōsuke was in full command. The initial disorientation of rebirth was a distant memory. His vast intellect, his centuries of experience as a Shinigami captain and a transcendent being, were now fully integrated with the developing mind and senses of Aemond Xantys. The Hōgyoku, his constant, silent companion, was no longer just a passive amplifier. It was an active collaborator, a conduit through which he processed the unique magical energies of this world, and a tool he was beginning to wield with increasing finesse.
His understanding of the Hōgyoku's capabilities in this new reality had deepened considerably. It wasn't merely granting his subconscious desires; it was actively responding to his focused will, his strategic imperatives. The death of Aurion Vaelaros had been a crude, early experiment. Now, his manipulations were far more subtle, woven into the fabric of causality with a delicate touch. A whispered suggestion here, a carefully orchestrated "accident" there, a nudge to amplify a rival's existing paranoia or ambition – these were his new instruments. He was learning to play the song of this world's destiny, ensuring its crescendo would align with his own ascension.
Vhagarion, his dragon, was a testament to his growing influence, and a key component of his plans. The beast was no longer the gaunt, volatile creature of its youth. Vhagarion was now a magnificent terror, his scales the color of polished obsidian, shot through with those disturbing, vibrant green streaks that seemed to writhe with an inner, baleful light. He was larger than most dragons of his age, his wingspan capable of casting vast, ominous shadows. His emerald eyes burned with a fierce, almost sentient intelligence, and his loyalty, if it could be called that, was solely to Aemond.
Their bond was an enigma to other dragonlords. There were no whips, no chains, no shouted commands that characterized many Valyrian-dragon relationships. Aemond often simply looked at Vhagarion, a silent communion passing between them. They flew for hours, not just around the spires of Valyria or the training grounds, but far out, over the smoking peaks of the Fourteen Flames. While other dragonlords saw untamed wilderness or valuable mining territories, Aemond saw the raw, chaotic power of the planet, the immense geothermal and magical energies churning beneath the surface.
On these flights, Vhagarion seemed to revel in the proximity to the volcanoes, drawing strength from the sulfurous air and the searing heat. Aemond, through their unique connection, could feel the earth's unrest, the growing pressure, the whispers of the inevitable cataclysm. His greensight, amplified by the Hōgyoku and attuned by these excursions, provided him with visions of the Doom that were no longer fragmented glimpses but horrifyingly detailed panoramas of destruction. He saw the earth splitting open, mountains exploding, fire raining from the sky, the sea boiling, and Valyria itself cracking and sinking beneath waves of molten rock and superheated steam.
And through it all, he saw the souls. Millions upon millions of them, torn from their mortal shells in an instant of unimaginable terror and agony. A torrent of spiritual energy so vast it made the collective power of the Gotei 13 seem like a flickering candle in a hurricane. The Hōgyoku thrummed with a predatory hunger at these visions, a hunger Aemond shared. This was the foundation of his godhood.
His study of magic had moved beyond the Valyrian texts. While he mastered their fire and blood sorceries – finding them potent but crude, relying more on brute force and sacrifice than elegant theory – his true interest lay in the fundamental mechanics of spiritual energy, something Valyrians, for all their power, seemed to grasp only superficially. His Shinigami knowledge of Reiryoku, Reiatsu, Kido, and the nature of souls provided a far more sophisticated framework.
He had discovered, hidden in the deepest, most forbidden sections of the Xantys library and cross-referenced with knowledge awakened by the Hōgyoku, obscure treatises that hinted at older, more primal forms of magic. Texts that spoke of the "songs of the earth," of life-force manipulation practiced by forgotten civilizations, of the very essence of consciousness. He began to experiment, in absolute secrecy, within a magically shielded chamber deep beneath his private quarters, a chamber Vhagarion unknowingly guarded above.
His experiments were not the gruesome sacrifices of Valyrian blood mages. Aizen had always preferred a more… clinical approach. He started with plants, then insects, then small animals procured from the city's underbelly. He wasn't interested in mere killing. He was studying the release of spiritual energy upon death, the nature of the soul's departure, the faint residues it left behind. The Hōgyoku allowed him to perceive these subtle energies with incredible clarity and even to manipulate them on a minuscule scale, drawing them in, feeling their essence. These were infinitesimal drops, but they were the first steps towards harnessing the ocean the Doom would provide.
His relationship with his mother, Lyra, had become increasingly strained. She was a woman of fierce, if quiet, integrity, and her Northern sensibilities clashed ever more sharply with the decadent, often cruel, realities of Valyria, and with the unsettling changes she perceived in her son. Her own greensight, though less controlled and precise than Aemond's, gave her flashes of his chilling ambition, of the darkness that lay coiled beneath his polite exterior.
"You spend so much time with those old books, Sōsuke," she'd say, her voice tinged with a worry she couldn't quite articulate. They were in her small, struggling godswood, the pale weirwood sapling now a slightly more robust tree, its carved eyes weeping sluggish red tears. "And with Vhagarion. That beast… it is not like other dragons. There is a shadow over it, over you."
Aemond would offer a placid smile. "Knowledge is power, Mother. And Vhagarion understands me as no other can." He would sometimes humor her, listening to her tales of the Old Gods, of honor and duty. He found her beliefs quaint, but the underlying magic they represented, the connection to the planet's consciousness, was intriguing. He suspected the "Old Gods" were a primitive interpretation of the same networked, ancient energy he had perceived through the weirwood. Another potential source of power, perhaps, or at least a system to be understood and, if necessary, subverted.
He had seen her fear, her growing suspicion. He knew she sometimes had nightmares, fragmented visions of him standing amidst flames and ruin, his eyes not those of her son, but of something ancient and terrible. He took care to ensure her greensight never revealed too much, subtly clouding her perceptions when they strayed too close to his true nature or the full extent of his plans. She was still useful. Her Stark heritage and her "otherness" provided a convenient smokescreen for some of his own eccentricities. And her maternal affection, however misplaced, offered a layer of protection, a humanizing element in the eyes of Valyrian society that he could exploit. Her death was still slated for the Doom; there was no need to hasten it.
Rhaegar Xantys, Aemond's father, remained largely oblivious. He saw his son's brilliance as a reflection of his own superior lineage, albeit puzzlingly expressed. Aemond's lack of interest in traditional Valyrian pursuits like dueling or political grandstanding was a minor disappointment, but his scholarly achievements and his unprecedented bond with the formidable Vhagarion were sources of pride and strategic advantage. Rhaegar was currently embroiled in a complex dispute with House Belaerys over mining rights in the Valyrian peninsula's eastern foothills, a region increasingly prone to tremors.
"Aemond," Rhaegar said one evening, his voice heavy with authority, "you will accompany me to the Conclave session tomorrow. The Belaerys dogs are attempting to usurp our ancestral claims. It is time you witnessed the true theater of Valyrian power."
Aemond inclined his head. "As you wish, Father." Internally, Aizen smirked. The "true theater" was a den of preening egos, shortsighted ambitions, and fatal ignorance. But it was an excellent place to observe the players, to gauge their strengths and weaknesses, and perhaps, to plant a few carefully chosen seeds of discord.
The Valyrian Conclave was held in a vast, obsidian hall, its ceiling so high it was lost in shadow, supported by pillars carved to resemble colossal, intertwined dragons. The air was hot, thick with the scent of incense and the subtle thrum of contained magical energies. Dragonlords from the forty ruling families, clad in elaborate robes of silk and scale, lounged on carved thrones, their voices echoing in arrogant debate.
Aemond sat silently beside his father, his expression one of calm attentiveness. He listened as Rhaegar Xantys and Maegor Belaerys traded barbed accusations and veiled threats. He watched the shifting alliances, the subtle glances, the whispered conspiracies. His Hōgyoku-enhanced perception cut through the rhetoric, revealing the fear, greed, and desperation that simmered beneath the proud facades.
He saw the Belaerys faction, fueled by declining fortunes and a younger, ambitious generation, growing increasingly reckless. He saw his father, proud and unyielding, but also overconfident, underestimating his rivals' desperation. The dispute, Aemond foresaw, would escalate. There would be bloodshed, not in the Conclave hall, but in the disputed territories, dragon against dragon. More souls, albeit a trickle, for the Hōgyoku to register, for him to analyze.
During a recess, a young dragonlord, barely older than Aemond, swaggered over. This was Vaeron Belaerys, Maegor's eldest son, known for his fiery temper and his equally fiery red dragon, Ignis. Vaeron had the classic Valyrian look: silver-gold hair, violet eyes, and an ingrained arrogance that Aemond found particularly tiresome.
"Well, well, if it isn't the little Xantys scholar," Vaeron sneered, his eyes lingering on Aemond's dark hair with disdain. "Still hiding behind books and that ill-omened green lizard of yours? Or have you finally learned how to wield a Valyrian steel blade?"
Several other young lords from the Belaerys faction chuckled. Rhaegar tensed, but Aemond placed a calming hand on his father's arm, a gesture of surprising maturity that made Rhaegar pause.
Aemond turned his gaze to Vaeron. It was a calm, steady look, yet it seemed to strip Vaeron bare, to see through his bluster to the insecurity beneath. "My pursuits are my own, Lord Vaeron," Aemond replied, his voice soft but carrying an edge of cold steel. "And Vhagarion is far more than a 'lizard.' Perhaps one day, your Ignis will be mature enough to appreciate that."
Vaeron's face flushed crimson. "Are you insulting Ignis? My dragon could swallow that mutated swamp-crawler of yours whole!"
"Such boasts are easily made on solid ground," Aemond said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "Less easily proven in the sky."
The challenge was subtle, yet unmistakable. The air crackled with tension. Several older lords looked on with amusement or disapproval. Dragon duels between scions of rival houses were not unheard of, but they were dangerous, often fatal, and could escalate family feuds significantly.
Rhaegar looked at Aemond, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He hadn't expected such a direct, albeit veiled, challenge from his usually reserved son.
Vaeron, incensed, spat, "Are you challenging me, bookworm? Name the time and place!"
Before Aemond could reply, Maegor Belaerys stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "Enough, Vaeron. This is not the place for childish squabbles." His eyes, however, burned with anger as he looked at Rhaegar and Aemond. The insult to his son and his dragon had been noted.
Aemond simply inclined his head. "Indeed. My apologies if my confidence in Vhagarion was… misinterpreted." The apology was delivered with such perfect insincerity that it was more insulting than his original statement.
Later that night, as they returned to the Xantys manse, Rhaegar looked at his son with newfound respect, mixed with a touch of apprehension. "That was a dangerous game you played, Aemond. The Belaerys are vipers."
"All dragonlords are vipers, Father," Aemond replied, his gaze distant, as if looking at something far beyond the torchlit corridors. "Some are simply more venomous than others. Vaeron Belaerys is a fool. His anger makes him predictable."
Rhaegar grunted. "Predictable or not, his Ignis is a swift and powerful dragon. And Vhagarion, for all his size and… uniqueness, is still an unknown quantity in a true fight."
"Vhagarion will not disappoint," Aemond said with absolute certainty. His greensight had already shown him several possible outcomes of a confrontation with Vaeron. In all of them, Ignis was a smear of molten flesh and shattered bone. The only variable was how much of Vhagarion's true, terrifying nature he would have to reveal.
The "challenge" with Vaeron Belaerys, however, sparked an idea in Aizen's mind. While he had no interest in petty duels for honor, a controlled demonstration of Vhagarion's power, and by extension his own, could be useful. It would solidify his position, deter minor annoyances, and perhaps even allow him to further study the spiritual dynamics of dragon combat.
He began to subtly manipulate events. Through carefully placed whispers, leveraging the existing paranoia and gossip within Valyrian society, he fanned the flames of Vaeron's wounded pride. He used the Hōgyoku to amplify Vaeron's aggression, to make him obsessed with the perceived slight. He wanted Vaeron to issue a formal, undeniable challenge, one that Rhaegar, for the honor of House Xantys, could not refuse.
It took two weeks. Vaeron Belaerys, egged on by his peers and his own festering anger, formally challenged Aemond Xantys to a dragon duel over the Smoking Sea, a desolate, volcanic stretch of water known for its treacherous currents and unpredictable geysers. The stakes were honor, and a substantial tract of disputed land that both families had an eye on, separate from the main Xantys-Belaerys conflict.
Rhaegar was furious, but cornered. To refuse now would mean a catastrophic loss of face. Lyra was distraught, begging Aemond to reconsider, to find a way out.
"There is no way out, Mother, except through," Aemond told her calmly, his dark eyes unreadable. "Fear is a luxury we cannot afford." He saw her pain, her terror for him, and a fleeting, almost academic thought crossed his mind: this raw maternal fear, this anguish, was a potent emotional energy. He cataloged it, another data point in his ongoing study of the soul.
The day of the duel dawned grey and oppressive. The air over the Smoking Sea was thick with volcanic haze. Dragonlords from several houses had gathered on a high cliff overlooking the designated combat zone, their dragons restless silhouettes against the grim sky. This was high entertainment for the Valyrian elite.
Aemond, dressed in simple, dark riding leathers, approached Vhagarion. The dragon was immense now, his obsidian scales absorbing the faint light, the green streaks like veins of living emerald fire. He lowered his massive head, his great eye, larger than Aemond's torso, fixing on him. There was no fear in that gaze, only a primal readiness.
They underestimate us, Aemond projected, not in words, but in a wave of shared intent. They see a scholar and a wild beast. They will learn.
Vhagarion let out a low rumble, a plume of greenish-black smoke escaping his nostrils.
Across the clifftop, Vaeron Belaerys was preening, already savoring his victory. His dragon, Ignis, was a magnificent creature of crimson and gold, undeniably fast and agile, breathing gouts of bright orange flame.
The signal was given: a blast from a deep Valyrian horn.
Ignis shot into the sky like a flaming arrow, Vaeron's triumphant war cry echoing across the water. Vhagarion, in contrast, rose with a slower, more deliberate power, his vast wings beating with a rhythm that seemed to make the very air tremble. He did not immediately pursue.
"See, Xantys! Your beast is slow! Afraid!" Vaeron taunted, circling high above.
Aemond remained silent, his eyes narrowed, calculating angles, wind speeds, the subtle shifts in the geothermal updrafts from the sea below. He let Vaeron expend energy, let him display his dragon's agility. He saw the arrogance in Vaeron's maneuvers, the openings he was leaving.
Then, Aemond gave a silent command.
Vhagarion did not try to match Ignis's speed. Instead, he angled upwards, into the thickest part of the volcanic haze, disappearing from view.
Vaeron laughed. "Running away, scholar?" He wheeled Ignis around, searching.
The lords on the cliff murmured. Rhaegar Xantys clenched his fists, his face a mask of anxiety. Lyra watched, her heart a cold stone in her chest, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek.
Suddenly, from directly above Vaeron, a shadow detached itself from the haze. Vhagarion, wings tucked, plummeted like a thunderbolt, not in a burst of flame, but in a silent, terrifying dive. The green streaks on his scales seemed to blaze with an unnatural luminescence in the gloom.
Vaeron, caught completely by surprise, barely had time to react. He screamed for Ignis to evade, but it was too late. Vhagarion wasn't aiming for a glancing blow or a fiery exchange. His target was precise.
With a sound like mountains colliding, Vhagarion slammed into Ignis from above. His claws, thick as Valyrian longswords, tore through Ignis's wing membrane. But it was his jaws that did the true damage. Vhagarion's bite was not the snapping attack of a lesser predator; it was a crushing, brutal force. His teeth, long and serrated like obsidian daggers, sank deep into Ignis's neck, just behind the head.
There was a horrific, wet tearing sound, and Ignis's fiery roar died in a choked gurgle. The crimson dragon went limp, its flames extinguishing as its lifeblood poured into the Smoking Sea below. Vaeron, thrown from his saddle, screamed as he fell, a tiny, insignificant speck against the vast, grey expanse.
Vhagarion, with Ignis's lifeless body still partially in his grip, let out a roar that was not a cry of victory, but a chilling declaration of absolute dominance. It was a sound that echoed with the fury of the Fourteen Flames, a sound that promised utter annihilation. He then released the broken form of Ignis, which plummeted into the churning, superheated water and vanished.
Aemond felt a flicker of satisfaction. The kill had been efficient, brutal, and undeniable. He had also felt the surge of Ignis's dying spiritual energy, and the more potent, fear-soaked essence of Vaeron Belaerys as he fell to his death. Small additions to the Hōgyoku's reserves, but valuable for the data they provided on violent, concentrated soul release.
Vhagarion circled once, his emerald eyes sweeping over the stunned onlookers on the cliff, before gliding smoothly to land beside Aemond, who had dismounted and was watching the scene with an impassive expression.
The silence from the assembled dragonlords was absolute. They had expected a duel, perhaps a fiery spectacle. They had not expected a slaughter, an execution. They had seen Vhagarion's wildness before, but this was different. This was controlled, precise lethality, directed by the quiet, dark-haired boy who now calmly stroked the massive dragon's snout.
Maegor Belaerys was ashen-faced, his surviving sons looking at Aemond with a mixture of terror and hatred. Rhaegar Xantys was pale, but a flicker of grim pride, and perhaps fear, was in his eyes. He had sired something far more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
Lyra Stark simply closed her eyes, fresh tears falling. The vision she'd had of her son, wreathed in green fire and shadow, felt terrifyingly close. This was not the honor of the Starks, nor the fiery pride of Valyria. This was something colder, older, and infinitely more ruthless.
Aemond met his father's gaze. "The matter is settled, I believe."
The Belaerys family would not trouble House Xantys again. More importantly, Aemond Xantys and his terrifying dragon, Vhagarion, were now entities to be reckoned with, figures of fear and respect in the deadly dance of Valyrian politics.
As they flew back to the city, the Hōgyoku pulsed faintly against Aemond's chest, absorbing the residual spiritual energies from the encounter. The Doom was still years away, but his preparations were proceeding apace. He was learning to wield not just the magic of this world, but the very fear and ambition of its inhabitants.
He glanced down at the sprawling city of Valyria, its obsidian towers gleaming under the perpetual volcanic twilight. A city of power, of magic, of unimaginable wealth. A city of oblivious fools dancing on the lip of a volcano.
A city ripe for the harvest. And he, Aizen Sōsuke, would be the harvester. His emerald-eyed dragon was but one tool. His intellect, the Hōgyoku, and his growing understanding of the soul were his true weapons. The path to godhood was long, but every conflict, every death, every surge of fear and despair, was another step forward. The whispers of the Old Gods, the roar of dragons, the screams of the dying – they would all become part of his symphony of ascension.